


All Good Boys

by Prentice



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gentleness, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Burn, Unstable Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prentice/pseuds/Prentice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happened, Fitz didn’t think much of it. (Or: Five times Mack asked Fitz to be a good boy and the One time Fitz already was <em>his</em> good boy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Boys

**Author's Note:**

> Another challenge fic that ended up going its own way so I decided to post it as-is. Please note that this purposely has a lot of fragmented and run-on sentences, mainly to reflect Fitz's state of mind, so if those bother you *throws you a life raft* better bail out now. :P

The first time it happened, Fitz didn’t think much of it. His head was killing him, the throbbing pressure behind his eyelids making him feel sick and sour-bellied and all he wanted to do was go lie down for a while. He knew he couldn’t yet – there was a reason for it that crowded in behind the pain and the pressure but he couldn’t think of it clearly now.

He was too – there was too much. In his head. Jumbling up and fighting for space. Or, well, fighting for whatever space was left between the broken-empty spaces that were left behind and it’s just too much.

He knew that was – pathetic – but he couldn’t quite get past it. It was like words and thoughts and sometimes-even feelings were made of wisps of smoke, ungraspable and unattainable; blown away with the first wind of change. It was just so – so – _bloody_ _frustrating_.

It shouldn’t be like this. _He_ shouldn’t be like this. It should be – he should be – this was just _wrong_ and he didn’t know what to do to fix it, because he couldn’t even bloody _think_ in whole fucking sentences anymore without being – without losing –

“Working hard or hardly working there, Turbo?”

Jumping, Fitz winced, head throbbing sudden and sharp against his temples. God by he felt like he was going to be sick. Probably all over Mack, if the other man kept surprising him like this.

Hand lifting to rub the heel of his palm against his temple, Fitz squinted accusingly towards the open doorway, stomach lurching unpleasantly. “Do you have to do that?”

Eyebrows lifting at his tone, Mack shrugged from where he leaned casually against the doorframe, carefully wiping his hands clean with a dull red shop towel. “Do what, Turbo? I’ve been standing here for a while. You just didn’t notice.”

Mouth opening to reply, Fitz winced again, a small whine of pain escaping him when another sharp stab of pain lanced across his forehead, scraping like shards of broken glass against his nerves. He was definitely going to be sick, sooner rather than later. Eyes squeezing shut against the pain, he beat both hands to his forehead, shoulders hunching as he curled in on himself.

Why did it have to be this way? Why him? Why _now_? He was so bloody useless like this! He was like the broken toy that nobody wanted but were too afraid to get rid of because – because he was – they didn’t want – he _couldn’t_ even –

“Hey, hey. Turbo. Fitz. C’mon, man. Stop that. You need to – Fitz – Leo, man, _listen to me_ , you need to stop now.”

Trembling, Fitz whimpered, jerking against the sudden warmth that enfolded him, his hands held in a strangely gentle but no less vice-like grip. Whimpering again, he shuddered, fingers wiggling as he tried to force them back towards his head. He felt so – there was so much pressure there, so many things vying for space in there. He just wanted – he _needed_ –it to stop _._

“I know, man. I know. It’ll be okay. You gotta stop trying to hurt yourself, though. That’s not going to help anything. Just – just calm down for me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Stomach roiling, Fitz whined, twisting and wriggling for a few seconds more before slowly, reluctantly, quieting himself. It wasn’t easy – he wanted to strip right out of his skin; to pummel the pain in his head into submission and run as far and as fast as he could away from it. But – _but_ – there was always one of those now, wasn’t there? – no one would let him.

Not Skye, not May, not Coulson, not even the phantom fucking figure of Jemma in his head that made him as crazy as everyone thought he was now. He had to keep doing this. Had to keep suffering and fighting but all on his own, because no one could understand, could they, what it was like to be stuck inside their own head, trapped with fragmented pieces that no longer fit together.

He was broken, he was hurt, and it just wasn’t _fair_ that he had to do it alone.

“Shh, Turbo, shh. That’s enough of that. Just – here, let me.” The grip around his hands shifted, softening ever so slightly before re-tightening and then – fingers threaded their way through his curls, carding them softly in slow methodical drags that massaged his scalp and actually made him feel minutely better.

Head tilting, Fitz blinked, shuffling himself until he pressed back into the warmth behind him, the strong chest that moved and breathed with him, that smelled of motor oil and sweat and something spicy sweet, and leaned into the petting. It felt – good. As good as it could anyway, with his head still hurting.

“That’s it. Just relax. Be a good boy for me.”

Sighing, Fitz nodded, head aching with just that tiny movement and forced himself to relax. He head still hurt and he wasn’t sure how much he’d like this later, when he had a chance to think about Mack seeing him this way, helping him this way, but nevertheless, he could do this.

He could be a good boy.

That, at least, wasn’t too complicated for him.


End file.
